Christmas and Easter, but especially Christmas looms as a threat to me each year. The faithful are sincerely pious over these two high holy days, but in the United States, they are most significant to kids. Like anybody, I work hard to keep my family safe, fed, clothed, sheltered and educated. Of course. Don’t all sane people do this? Yet, on a single day, occurring like clockwork every year, I fear everything I’ve accomplished could be wiped out if I can not manage the prerequisite show of excess on December 25th. I know for a fact, my mom had trouble with this show. Yet, she made it happen in some fashion—every time. Even now, Mom is consistent. Long retired, she sends all of us, and our children—her grandchildren—something. Every year. Now, it’s my turn. I will admit now that I have failed.
I have had trouble with this season for many years. My mom raised my sisters and I to believe that if we are good and righteous, everything would work out. We went to church. We read and memorized bible verses. We sang in the choir. For one while, we WERE the choir. We prayed without ceasing. Still, as the oldest, I would watch my mom struggle, year after year to keep us safe, fed, clothed, sheltered and educated. Somehow she got through this. While we have never been homeless, we are not without scars from this struggle. My mom managed—alone in a world more hostile to her than I can imagine today—by dedicating herself to a faith that would consume her completely. My life, through her love, despite the improbability of her dreams, is the result of a miraculous test of will. She will probably never understand this about me; I understand. I understand because I have listened and watched and followed her—without becoming her—all of my life. I have immortalized this struggle in ChimeraBlues.
Between 1969 and 1972, the three of us were separated from our mom. Not unlike the children of many black families back then, we went south, without mom, to live with our grandmother and attend school. Day care, still a huge problem for many families today, was non existent back then. My mother could find no one to look after the three of us while she worked. As I mentioned, I was the oldest. I was eight. “Hide No Seek”, one of the paintings of ChimeraBlues, combines a couple of the games my sisters and I played during that time. Today’s electronic diversions were not available then. We had library books and our imaginations to distract us from boredom, or loneliness, or grief. Of course, Mom would visit us. She’d send clothing. She’d call us occasionally on the phone, which happened to be a party-line. She’d even transport Christmas, the entire colorful shiny sweet show to the three of us in rural Mississippi in the late 1960’s — early 70’s.
Forty years later, my oldest son is twenty-four years old, my oldest daughter is twenty-two. I was married to their father for just over ten years. There were difficult times, as with many families—especially the ones that break. Yet neither of my oldest children have ever been through a Christmas season without receiving something. Not before, nor since the divorce. I still have one of my son’s first Christmas presents. It’s a silly looking purple brontosaurus. When you push the yellow bird sitting on his back, the brontosaurus skitters across the floor. After the divorce, I remember taking bags of gifts to their father’s house to make sure the Christmas morning magic in his house would be as special as it was in mine. It didn’t matter where they were—his house or mine. Like all decent parents, we needed to make sure they knew they were loved. And we did.
My youngest daughter, my third child, is now fourteen. She’s old enough to know that I haven’t found a job yet. Her father sent money for her Christmas present but I used it to cover part of the rent. She knows. She’s smart. So, we have talked about this. Still, while I know there are thousands of us without work this holiday season, I had hoped against hope that something would happen to change this situation. Didn’t happen. I have nothing to give her. Or so I thought.
Yesterday, I walked out into the snow. “Safe bet, I thought,” no one else is out so no one can see my face, my eyes, my frustration.” Unfortunately, even though I know better, being out of work, no matter the season, makes me feel worthless. I am literally talking to myself saying things like, “You will not cry. Crying will not help.” One minute I am going over every stupid or otherwise decision that led to this, wondering why I am once again, talented, hard-working and literally out in the cold. The next minute I am doing what I have always done with the big three: fear, anger and—the most dangerous—despair. I made something of it.
Made entirely of images I took with my one shot camera—a newfangled digital distraction—I gave my daughter an animated card at midnight. It contains, among other things, the best Christmas tree I could afford. After lots of tears and hugs I sent copies to everybody I love who happens to have an email address. Then I tried to get some sleep. Today, I made two pies: one savory, one sweet. Zoe—her name means life—ate desert first. She hung out with her older brother. She had two helpings of homemade chicken pot pie. This year’s gift-card from Mom came in very handy. Zoe will probably not forget this year. It sucks. I think she is still happy though. I KNOW she knows I love her. I really have given her my best. Pretty much the way my mom did. I just hope she doesn’t internalize my struggle. That could wipe out everything I’ve accomplished.
“Tis the season to be thoughtful…
I’m thinking I spend a lot of time missing you.
I’m not always where I want to be at all.
Thankfully I’m an artist. Which means…
I spend a lot of time looking at boring stuff.
Doesn’t matter. Even when I can’t see you.
When I see something cool…
Or pretty…
I can’t wait to show you.
And that’s how I know…
I love you.
Every day.
Happy Season of Love
oooxxxoo
Always thinking about you,
tjay